Yorkshire Lyrics.

by John Hartley.

Mi Darling Muse.

Mi darlin' Muse, aw coax and pet her, To pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better; An' if aw find aw connot get her To lend her aid, Into foorced measure then aw set her, The stupid jade!

An' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly, Nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly, Place all the blame,--yo'll place it reightly, Upon her back; To win her smile aw follow neetly, Along her track.

Maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly, An let me taste o' melancholy; But just to spite her awl be jolly, An say mi say; Awl fire away another volley Tho' shoo says "Nay."

We've had some happy times together, For monny years we've stretched our tether, An as aw dunnot care a feather For fowk 'at grummel, We'll have another try. Aye! whether We stand or tummel.

Sometimes th' reward for all us trubble, Has been a crop o' scrunty stubble, But th' harvest someday may be double, At least we'll trust it; An them 'at say it's but a bubble, We'll leeav to brust it.

To a Daisy, Found blooming March 7th.

A'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin, Little daisy!

Pray, whativer wor ta doin?

Are ta crazy?

Winter winds are blowin' yet,-- Tha'll be starved, mi little pet.

Did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee, An' deceive thee?

Niver let appearance charm thee, For believe me, Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares, Laid to catch thee unawares.

Still aw think it luks a shame, To tawk sich stuff; Aw've lost faith, an' tha'll do th' same, Hi, sooin enuff.

If tha'rt happy as tha art Trustin' must be th' wisest part.

Come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan, Raand thi dwellin'; They may screen thee when aw've gooanm, Ther's no tellin'; An' when gentle spring draws near Aw'll release thee, niver fear.

An' if then thi pretty face, Greets me smilin'; Aw may come an' sit bith' place, Time beguilin'; Glad to think aw'd paar to be, Of some use, if but to thee.

Mi Bonny Yorksher La.s.s.

Aw've travelled East, West, North, an South, An led a rooamin' life; Aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth, Aw've shared wi joy an strife; Aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip, Whativver's come to pa.s.s: But th' captain of mi Fortun's ship, Has been mi Yorksher La.s.s.

Storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost, A toy for wind an wave; Mid blindin' fog an snow an frost, Aw've thowt noa power could save; But ivver in the darkest day, Wi muscles strong as bra.s.s, To some safe port shoo's led the way,-- Mi honest Yorksher La.s.s.

Shoo's fair,--all Yorksher la.s.ses are,-- Shoo's bonny as the rest, Her brow ne'er shows a line o' care, Shoo thinks what is, is best.

Shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck, An it seems as clear as gla.s.s, 'At th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck 'At weds a Yorksher La.s.s.

Ther's oriental beauties, an'

Grand fowk ov ivvery grade, But when it comes to honest worth, Shoo puts 'em all ith' shade, For wi her charms an virtues, Shoo stands at top o'th' cla.s.s; Ther's nooan soa rare as can compare, Wi a bonny Yorksher La.s.s,

Then here's to th' Yorksher la.s.ses!

Whearivver they may be; Ther worth ther's nooan surpa.s.ses, An ther's nooan as brave an free!

If awd to live life o'er ageean, Awd think misen an a.s.s, If aw didn't tak for company, A bonny Yorksher la.s.s.

Give it 'em Hot.

Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!

Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!

Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!

Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!

What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?

Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!

Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?

O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin; An honest man still should be fearless and bold; But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin, An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's n.o.bbut o' gold.

Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en, If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee; Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden, Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.

Let ivery man by his merit be tested, Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back; Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested, An' what they're ent.i.tled to, that let em tak.

Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin, All yo 'at profess others failins to tell, 'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin, If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.

A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.

Little childer,--little childer; Harken to an old man's ditty; Tho yo live ith' country village,-- Tho yo live ith' busy city.

Aw've a little tale to tell yo,-- One 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,-- It's abaat One who to save yo, Here amang men made His dwellin.

Riches moor nor yo can fancy,-- Moor nor all this world has in it,-- He gave up becoss He loved yo, An He's lovin yo this minnit.

All His power, pomp and glory, Which to think on must bewilder,-- All He left,--an what for think yo?

Just for love ov little childer.

In a common, lowly stable He wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin, As if angel's 'een wor peepin On His face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin.

An one star, like a big lantern, Shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin, Saw, an foller'd till it rested Just aboon whear He wor sleepin.

Then strange music an sweet voices Seem'd to sing reight aght o' Heaven, "Unto us a child is born!

Unto us a son is given!"

Then coom wise men thro strange nations,-- Young men an men old an h.o.a.ry,-- An they all knelt daan befoor Him, An araand Him shone a glory.

Then a King thowt he wod kill Him, Tho he reckoned net to mind Him, But they went to a strange country, Whear this bad King couldn't find Him.

An He grew up strong and st.u.r.dy, An He sooin began His praichin, An big craads stood raand to listen, An they wondered at His taichin.

Then some sed bad things abaat Him, Called Him names, laft at an jeered Him;-- Sed He wor a base imposter, For they hated, yet they feeard Him.

Some believed in His glad tidins,-- Saw Him cure men ov ther blindness,-- Saw Him make once-deead fowk livin, Saw Him full o' love an kindness.

Wicked men at last waylaid Him, Drag'd Him off to jail and tried Him, Tho noa fault they could find in Him, Yet they cursed an crucified Him.

Nubdy knows ha mich He suffered; But His work on earth wor ended:-- From the grave whear they had laid Him, Into Heaven He ascended.

Love like His may well bewilder,-- Sinners weel may bow befoor Him;-- Nah He waits for th' little childer, Up in Heaven whear saints adore Him.

Think when sittin raand yor hearthstun, An the Kursmiss bells are ringing, Ha He lived an died at yo may Join those angels in ther singin.